


The Sentiment in Silence

by LetThereBeDestiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cas is a med student, Dean does the ball chasing, M/M, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 06:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14442993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetThereBeDestiel/pseuds/LetThereBeDestiel
Summary: Castiel and Dean had spent the past two years together at the same college, but their relationship is not at all what it used to be in high school.For one, they aren't together anymore.And then there's the fact that they can't stop teasing each other, trying to be as annoying as possible.Almost as if they're searching for a reason to be around each other.Almost.





	The Sentiment in Silence

Castiel's eyes were fixed on the ball, his stare following it leisurely along and across the field. Left, right. Up - down. His hands lay limply in his lap, keeping to himself, although no one was watching him. He didn’t want to look like he belonged in the big stadium, like he fit in with the rowdy crowd. More than that, he didn’t want to _feel_ like he belonged. His lips were fixed into a grimace, as if he were made of stone, his eyes the only thing indicating otherwise.

Someone scored a touchdown. Gordon or Balthazar, maybe. Not Dean. Not his number.

Not that he cared. Dean or no Dean; potayto, potahto. He didn’t care about Dean – not anymore, not since the summer after senior year. Dean’s number was simply the only one he recognized on the field. It wasn’t like he was tracking him, trying to find him within the groups of ridiculous-looking American Footballers with their stupid costumes as they chased a flying egg-shaped ball. For all he cared, Dean’s team could be losing. Even worse: Dean could fall. He could hurt himself. He could fuck up his knee, like last-

_Thump._

He was too far away to hear it, but the sound was so vividly connected in his mind to the blow that he might as well have been down on the field. Number twenty four was groping his face hectically, his free hand yanking the helmet from his head. He was scowling and yelling something at the player who’d elbowed him in the face. The judge called for a time out.

Castiel let out an evaluating huff. Dean let go of his nose and lightly felt around it, as if testing freezing waters with the tips of his toes. It didn’t look like the game would resume soon.

Slowly, as though by binding rather than by will, Castiel stood up and ambled down the stairs, crossing the field with a jog. As soon as he was at hearing range, he recognized Dean’s agitated voice.

“I wasn’t doin’ anything, Bobby. I wasn't even holding the ball close to my face. He was fuckin’ trying to take me out, I swear.”

“I know, I know. Hey, watch your language, kid.”

Dean let out a huff and tilted his face upwards. His fingers were still on his face, as if it would fall apart without him holding it together. His lips were covered in blood that flowed down his hand and trickled onto his wrist. Castiel broke into the group that was huddled around Dean, pushing past the coach and stopping before the twenty-year-old that sat on a bench.

“Oh my God,” he called. “Dean, are you alright? Who hurt you?”

As much as he tried to sound melodramatic, his voice was still flat. When Dean saw him, though, his eyes widened with irritation.

Good.

“Someone call a med student. Cas got a stick up his ass,” he groaned loudly. The look in his eyes indicated that talking to Castiel – maybe even having to make eye contact with him - was probably just as painful as his injury. “Oh, wait, d’you think you could take it out yourself?”

“ _Real_ doctor’s on her way,” the coach muttered. “Now git, everybody. Show gotta go on. Garth, you’re up instead of Dean.”

With what had to be an involuntary movement, Dean wrinkled his nose – and immediately regretted it, his shoulders twitching with pain. The players around them scattered and coach Singer turned back to the game.

“I’m thinking you must have really crossed Crowley for him to get you in that angle,” Castiel said conversationally, gesturing vaguely at the nose, and sat down beside Dean.

“Must’ve been my fault,” Dean muttered, “that he punched me in the nose.” His tone had that exasperated edge again, but when Castiel looked over at him, his lips held the hint of a smirk. Castiel felt his chest puff slightly, just at the fact that he could get a reaction out of Dean, just at that small sardonic smile. He hated it, hated that Dean’s attention still seemed to have his heart thud a little strangely; even if the look on Dean’s face made him think that Dean’s heart betrayed him the same way Castiel's did.

“Your fault, yes. Because you’re, ah, _impulsive_ ,” he pulled the reference from one of their old classes, a few years back. Junior year, maybe. 

Dean snorted in response. “God, that teacher was a dick.” There was no acid in his voice this time, just a certain sense of nostalgia. They were both quiet for a moment, watching the game.

“Let me see your nose.”

Dean’s expression hardened. “Thanks, Romeo, but I’m fine,” he muttered, although he was still holding his nose in clear discomfort. His gaze on the ball turned deliberately concentrated.

“Really, you’re a hero,” Castiel’s voice was seeping irony. “But that doctor doesn’t seem to show up.”

“I’d rather wait,” Dean grumbled. Castiel sighed. He tried to ignore how familiar it felt, sitting side by side, listening to the quiet between them; he wasn’t talking about the last two years, of course – the time spent together whenever they had a chance to annoy one another, to be resentful, to comment and sting. The time spent pretending to hate each other, yet not quite. Knowing it was something else. Because if they truly couldn’t stand each other they simply wouldn’t talk - and yet somehow they seemed to always find a way to sit side by side again, a reason to say something, as caustic and wry as that something was.

He was talking about _before._ When the days were cold and full of long quiets and holding hands and just being _good,_ before summer came and the silences became convenient instead of comfortable.

It was weird, almost unnatural, how he’d take any bitter and taunting day at college rather than a day with a convenient silence again. Maybe the gap year did them both good. Maybe it was the feeling that they had nothing more to lose now.

“I like it here,” he said then, quietly. He didn’t know why.

“College?” Dean asked, turning to look at him. Castiel’s train of thought caught him off guard. His eyes were big and dark above the red mess of his nose.

Castiel closed his mouth and opened it again. “What it did to us,” he said eventually. Dean nodded, looking back to the filed.

“I wish I could play.”

“I know.”

“We’re losing.”

A moment of silence. “Well, there wouldn’t be much of a difference if you played.”

Dean let out a laugh and elbowed his side. Another minute passed.

“I think we should report the doctor missing.”

Dean laughed again. It sounded like a spring of water when it wasn’t taunting or irritated or sad. “Good thing I have a med student by my side.”

Was that an invitation? He wasn’t sure. He reached for Dean’s face, feeling the red skin that was slowly turning purple beneath his hot fingers. Dean shifted to be facing him, not meeting his eyes. The expression on his face made Castiel wonder if he were trying not to lean into the touch. Just the thought made butterflies twist his stomach mercilessly.

“Look up,” he said gently, in almost a whisper. Somewhere far away from them, the crowd cheered at a touchdown. Dean tilted his head backwards again, though it seemed to be in his nature to argue.

“It’s not bleeding anymore.”

“Yes, it is,” Castiel muttered. Dean lifted a hand to push his arm away, but when Castiel didn’t back down, he left it there.

He could feel the warmth of Dean’s fingers on his forearm. He waited for them to move, to flinch away in embarrassment – because there was no chance in hell he was moving his arm as long as Dean was touching him.

Dean didn’t move.

Slowly, with his right hand still on Dean’s face, he leaned in and stopped inches from Dean’s face. He grabbed a blood stained rag Dean had left on the bench beside him, pulling away. Dean’s breath came in a short, quiet puff, as if he’d been holding it.

“Is it still bleeding?” He asked as Castiel wiped the blood from his cheek.

“No,” he answered, touching along Dean’s nose. “Does this hurt?”

“Not so much,” Dean mumbled. “Should it?”

Castiel kept his face smooth as he traced his fingers along Dean’s face, feeling the muscles of it tensing – as a reaction to Cas’ touch or out of fear for the life of his own nose, Castiel didn’t know.

“It’s broken. I don’t think there’s much to do about it now – your face will look a bit silly, maybe.” He sighed. “Try not to think about it.”

Dean’s eyes widened with panic. “Really?”

“No.” Cas’ lips pursed into a small smile.

“You-“ Dean gasped, shoving Cas’ side, and locked his jaw as he looked away. Trying to suppress a smile, Cas realized.

“Your face is fine,” he assured Dean, his eyes beaming with the accomplished bluff. Dean had tried to trick him into believing things of this sort dozens of times in the past two years, and had succeeded every time. He ought to take his opportunity at revenge when he saw it.

“Asshole,” Dean muttered beside him, pretending to look at the porch of the stadium, where the crowd was beginning to stand and line up for the exits.

“The tables have turned, you see,” Cas said contentedly. He waited for Dean to look at him.

He didn’t.

“Dean.”

Dean was very interested in his teammates all of a sudden. They were walking towards the shower rooms, smiling and slapping each other’s backs, some taking their shirts off. Dean eyed them stubbornly. Cas swallowed, feeling a sudden urge to distract him from the half-naked men. Not that he was jealous. But the way Dean's eyes followed their back muscles was just uncanny. 

“Anything I can do to make up for it?” Cas grumbled, his tone as careless as possible. Which was not very.

Dean shrugged beside him. “I dunno,” he said. His eyes fell from the players to the ground. “Kiss ‘n make up?”

Cas let out an abrupt huff, almost a snort, watching Dean’s face for a sign of sarcasm.

Dean’s eyes stayed on the ground.

Oh.

_Oh._

Slowly, as if Dean might stand up and leave if he made a wrong movement, Cas reached out and put his hand in Dean’s, between them on the bench.

“I suppose we could,” he let out faintly, the words getting caught up in the rapid heartbeat in his throat.

Dean let out a deep sigh, as if he _had_ been holding his breath for a while. A year, or a couple. Very quietly, he said,

“Let’s agree to never fall apart again.”

“Well,” Cas said, his voice rising as if he were about to add, _‘can’t promise anything’._

This time, Dean smiled. He turned to face Cas again, tightening the grip on his hand instead of shoving his shoulder playfully. He closed his eyes, squeezing Cas’ fingers with his one hand and tugging on his shirt with the other.

“Kiss me senseless, you romantic swine,” he whispered, his tone so fierce that it melted everything around them, everything that wasn’t Dean’s flaring eyes, his warm breath, his fingers feeling so natural around Cas’, as if that had never stopped being where they belonged.

And Cas kissed him. And he never let go again.


End file.
